


The Sinking City

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 15:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: A prosperous colony newly come under the T'au Empire learns the cost of betraying the Imperium of Man.





	The Sinking City

**THE SINKING CITY**

* * *

There was a dream, once.

It seemed so hard to grasp now, in the choking dust and ash beneath the Horned Rat. Everything seemed so far away, so fleeting. Shadows chased each other across the cellar in some desultory game of tag - the shrouded figures of citizens who had been lucky enough to find the bolt-hole before the building came down.

Something more real came into focus as he shook his head. A dusty jacket around a nearby body. Now wasn’t the time to wonder if it was a paying customer. He shook it, looking for a reaction.

A mewling. A broken sound. Unfamiliar contours. A hand reaches for his -- one with fewer fingers.

He clasps it. “Are you injured, honoured one?” His voice is raw and harsh, and the hand tries to pull away. He holds it fast: there’s no more room for panic. There will be a rational and reasonable explanation. The trick was to remain calm enough to find it. “Easy now. You’re safe here.”

An easy lie. Nowhere is safe.

The honoured one -- the _t’au_ in their own language, the one he has yet to master -- looks up from its huddle, eyes dull and slitted in the gloom. There is more than fear in that expression. There is a trembling acceptance of the end that now fades into shock and relief.

It is forbidden, of course, to touch the honoured ones, but these were exceptional circumstances. With a grunt, he hauled the _t’au_ to its reverse-jointed feet.

The honoured one wiggles its fingers in the humility of gratitude to a lesser rank, which is lost entirely on the _gue’la_ \- the human. They consider each other in the single, swinging lantern-light of the cellar. Somewhere close by there is a thick weeping, anguish wrung from a choked vessel.

“Gothic?” asks the _t’au_. It comes out weirdly distorted to his ears: go-thick?

“Aye,” he replies. “Apologies honoured one, I’m behind on my lexical studies.”

Another meaningless gesture. “Where is? Ah, are?”

Attempting to read the honoured one’s expression as he would a fellow human is impossible, and he has no frame of reference for the finger-waggling. It’s fleetingly rare to see the upper society down here in the Dregs, especially not in an establishment like this. It’s not that he isn’t a believer in the Good. He just didn’t ever expect his life to take that kind of turn when it would matter in any meaningful way.

“The Horned Rat, honoured one.” No response - a look as blank as vellum, which he _did_ understand. “On Canal? Down by the waterline?” He mimes the crash of water against the seawall. A spark of comprehension. “Right, the _gue’la_ tiers.”

Open palms. “How?”

His own unconscious shrug is equally lost on the other. “Don’t know, honoured one. I just work here.”

“Ah, _work_. I work, also.” The _t’au_ rubbed at a nasty abrasion on one cheek. A somewhat, if he was any judge at all, guilty smile. “Curious. I was… fall?” A grimace. “Loss? Yes, loss.”

“You got lost?”

A lowering of the honoured one’s head. “Yes.”

He’d reached out to pat the _t’au’s_ shoulder before any consideration of respect and relative rank could pull him back from a shocking breach of protocol. It was only his _mind_ that understood that the _gue’la_ were not meant to come into contact with the honoured ones; what he saw before him bridged a species gap in the way few things can. The _t’au_ was ashamed.

“Happens to the best of us, honoured one.”

The _t’au_ looked, at least, a little better. Its eyes were scanning the cellar now, and it had straightened rather than being hunched into a defensive posture. “Must go,” it said, then met his eyes. “Ah, can… ah, require, ask,” - a string of foul invective that could only be curses at its own halting speech - “Aid? Assistance?”

“Of course, honoured one.”

In response, the _t’au_ made another series of complicated gestures combined with a string of sing-song syllables. The language had a melody to it, a sound that could almost be called beautiful, but no meaning imparted itself on the human. The alien clapped hands in sudden understanding, and tried a more simple pitch, pressing fingers to its chest in identification. “Sourstone, _fio’la_.” Another quirked smile. “Earth. Yes?”

He understood that much at least -- even among the honoured ones, there were distinct and proper qualities that divided them in their service to the Good. The _fio’la_ were the engineers and artisans, metalworkers and masons.

“I understand,” he replied and indicated his own chest. “People here call me Trust, but ah, don’t take that literally, honoured one.” _Though I doubt I’ll see you at the card game over at Henchick’s any time soon._

The weeping was quiet, now. Whoever was left in the cellar, whoever had not found their own way out was beyond the aid either the _t’au_ or the man could offer.

It was time to go.

* * *

Trust went out the sealine door first, cautiously looking around. The rusted door had been warped by time and exposure so that it barely fit the frame, and the Horned Rat half-collapsing hadn’t made the warping any easier, but he’d put his back into it. There was no sign of those who had come this way previously - almost as if they’d thrown themselves into the lapping waves and disappeared.

The sea would take them all eventually, of course. Every year the city settled a little more, another few basements were abandoned, streets closed off. What had once been a technological marvel was -- sadly -- sinking.

All petitions to the honoured ones had been met with quiet dismissal. It simply wasn’t a priority to those who lived in the spires above.

Try as he might, Trust couldn’t find the resentment he was looking for. The _t’au_ treated their human proxies well enough and allowed them nearly unrestricted freedom and movement. It wasn’t that they were oppressive or vindictive, they were simply… distant.

And it was hard to hate something so very far away.

Sourstone was blinking into the dim sunlight behind him, shaped by the doorway. The stocky _t’au_ stepped up beside the wiry human to see what he did.

The port was on fire. Vessels of human and _t’au_ make burned together, crumpled and run together as they had attempted to flee or been pushed by the shockwaves of their fellows. Some were overturned and leaking propellant, forming traitorous bridges for the flames to spread to untouched vessels. Hard light of varying colours flashed over the few that remained or had made for the open sea -- every point of escape was embattled.

He hadn’t heard a damn thing. Sourstone was wringing hands in a gesture that he was very familiar with.

Helplessness.

“We go,” said the _t’au_ hurriedly, “We must, haste, expedience.” Sourstone was stumbling over the Gothic now, injecting a unique lexicon as the terror mounted.

They moved down the shoreline, over the ramshackle metal piers that the humans used to launch private boats from to fish. The honoured ones frowned at the crude construction, but approved of the hunting -- there was a tastefulness to that ecosystem.

Any vessels found with more than the strict allotment was punished severely. The balance, after all, had to be maintained.

There was nothing docked now, of course. The owners had all cut rope and gone, and were long sped to the cape, or down the coast, or to the bottom of the harbour. It was likely that all fates would be the same in the end.

Sourstone struggled on haphazard stairs built for beings with longer legs and stride, but - ignoring all consideration of cultural protocol - Trust kept the _t’au_ steady as he panted and used every second breath to curse, in that untranslatable tongue, shoddy workmanship across the galaxy. The Good might say that gods and devils did not exist, but Sourstone had turned crude expression into something very close to a religion.

They broke out to what passed for street-level rather than the close-trapped warrens on the lowest levels. What amounted to the _gue’la_ district of business, where market stalls and bunting was erected in cleared avenues.

On a usual day, the air would be thick with the cry of merchants - not just humans, but kroot and solid demiurg, even the occasional being whom Trust had never heard of. The honoured ones did not encourage the buying and selling of intoxicants and recreational pastimes - they simply regarded it as a moral failing of the lesser castes, one that would be excised as they entered into the social contract of the Good.

No force would be used. All would come willingly. It was the only logical, rational choice. And all would be better for it, as they progressed along the way.

Not that there weren’t raids on stockpiles and warehouses and particularly unscrupulous vendors. Even the Horned Rat had once had a grim-faced visit from the Fire Caste, where a patron was dragged out the front door into a waiting speeder.

Yes, all would progress at their own pace, but the honoured ones were perfectly willing to give a nudge when things stalled out.

Nothing moved in the marketplace now but the rust-beaked raptors.

They perched atop every broken body, human or otherwise, rapturous in their feasting, deigning not to give Trust or Sourstone a mote of their attention. The stink rolled over them like a tangible thing, of burnt flesh and ozone, when wet elements of physiology had been flash-fried. The birds cared not -- theirs was the true equality of the grave and the worm. All was carrion in the end, after all. They didn’t begrudge a seat at the table.

Noisily, the _t’au_ threw up, pitching whatever victuals he’d had over the nearby railing. Trust simply stared.

Was this the work of the Good? Was this one of the rumoured purges? No. No, it couldn’t be.

“Sourstone,” he said, keeping the tremor from his voice. “Do you know -- how familiar are you with, with guns?” He mimed the firing action as the honoured one wiped sticky mucus away. “Do you, do you know?”

“Imperium,” replied the _t’au_, voice shaking with terror. “Here. Imperium. _Mon’tau_.”

A sudden explosion twisted them both around.

* * *

The raptors screamed and rose in a black cloud, briefly overshadowing the sun as the few still-standing stalls bent down under the pressure forced them down.

From the other end of the street, a bronze shape streaked, followed closely by two others, their thrusters overclocking as they fought free of a fireball. Trust had only seen battlesuits from a far distance, either on a parade circuit or boarding vessels, but as a child, he had always dreamed of being close to one, the paragon-technology of the honoured ones.

In his deepest imagination, he had thought of what it would be like to pilot one himself. That was impossible, of course -- utterly impossible, and dishonourable besides. He was who he was, and should be grateful for that.

But still. The dream. The dream…

All three battlesuits were racing backwards, pulse weapons thumping in a deep drum as suppressing fire. Without thinking, Trust shoved Sourstone back down the first few steps even as the _t’au_ began to raise his voice.

It didn’t matter who they were. Drawing attention would be an incredibly poor idea.

Because the fight wasn’t over yet. Even in that tremendous, exhausting fireball, the fight wasn’t over.

The dream turned into a nightmare.

It would have been beautiful if it was not a nightmare. Nothing should have survived the explosion, the lash of the honoured one’s most powerful weapons. Nothing should have been that fast, faster than the Crisis Team’s three-tiered tracking could react to. And nothing -- _nothing_ \-- should have been strong enough to bring down a glorious battlesuit.

At first, Trust thought it was a battlesuit, too, one he had never seen, not even in the precious, smuggled _t’au_ children books with their glossy pages of heroic honoured ones in their invincible technology.

It was an affront. A blasphemy in its crudity.

Vile black smoke spat from its crude promethium engines as it slammed off the first building, cracking the pre-fabricated casing deeply, the whole structure sagging as the _thing_ launched from it. The sudden change in direction and momentum confounded the battlesuits -- their arc of fire was too slow, _impossibly_ slow by comparison.

But how? _How?_ The _thing_ was so… so… _lesser_.

It cannoned into the first battlesuit, the leader-markings shimmering, the suit’s engines roaring for an emergency jump. There was never time. The thing simply reached -- reached -- into the suit’s chest, through layers of armour, with a hand that burned blue.

And tore out the pilot. Half of the pilot. Less, really. The part of the pilot that was necessary to continue the fight.

The crisis team acknowledged their comrade’s sacrifice by attempting to use the suit’s death to obliterate their foe. A fusion blaster screamed: again, and much closer this time, a fireball surged.

Trust pushed the honoured one down, eyes streaming tears as he ducked as well. The staircase groaned and burned, but did not fall. Sourstone was yelling something but had not attempted to break away. The _t’au_ was as trapped as the human. They could do nothing but rise up to watch again.

The second battlesuit appeared undamaged until it fell like a stunned animal. There was only a red, gaping hole where the pilot’s compartment should have been. It glowed like a baleful eye. Whatever the thing had done, it was still burning. It would likely continue to burn until it ate through to the other side.

But the last member of the crisis team refused to surrender or flee. The battlesuit danced with a fluid grace but barely remained a step ahead of the _thing_ which lunged, prowled, and put on tremendous bursts of jet-assisted speed.

Trust realised that it could only hurt the honoured ones with its touch. It had no ranged weaponry to speak of. Even an untrained eye could see that the thing could use them, could mount them at least -- had it lost them in its assault? Had the honoured ones damaged it? Or had it simply… not considered them necessary?

He could feel Sourstone push past him, but no longer had the courage to stop the stocky _t’au_. There was nothing either of them could accomplish against the _thing_. They could do nothing but die.

Die as the third battlesuit did. The _thing_ tore off one of its trailing arms: a calculated sacrifice, Trust saw, that the pilot had made to bring the fusion blaster into play again. It was not enough. Nothing like enough. The thing simply kicked it away, the force of the blow breaking the limb, twisting it into an unusable mess and used it to drag the battlesuit down to the street.

Trust could see it clearly now. It was in the shape of a man, yes, but a grotesque giant, an utter mockery of humanity. The unhelmed face was flat and appeared almost unfinished, perched atop a navy-blue body that was far too large for it. It wasn’t a carapace or a second skin: it was armour, studded with human skulls and crude bolts. On the giant’s shoulder was a thick plate that bore a laurel wreath encircling a Gothic letter.

It did not deign to use its deadly touch on the last battlesuit. It simply stomped down on the pilot compartment, again and again, and again, until the hatch gave way. Then it continued, each fall of the giant boot falling with a sickening crunch. It was almost hypnotic in its precision, like a driven piston.

Survival was, of course, impossible.

Sourstone was doing something with one of the fallen battlesuit arms when Trust tore his eyes away from the sight. It didn’t matter -- the honoured one next completed his task. He did not even see the thing move, but suddenly there it was, grasping the struggling _t’au_ in one massive gauntlet.

What truly broke Trust’s silence was the way the giant looked at the honoured one. Not with hate. Not with reverence. But with disgust, as if the creature had stepped in something unpleasant. Sourstone was not a warrior. Not a threat. Of no interest, and no consequence.

“Let him go!” Trust yelled, rising from the stairs, the sick fear nearly staying his feet - but on he stumbled, towards the giant. “It’s over, you’ve done enough! Let him go!”

The giant considered him with dead eyes for a moment.

It spoke in the voice of death. Ancient death. Bitter death. Death that would strangle the galaxy out of jealousy. Death not as a natural part of a cycle, as a preparation for renewal, but as spite. The death of a drowning civilisation that would, in its pointless struggle, drag the galaxy down to hell with it.

“Suffer not,” it said, “the alien to live.”

And broke Sourstone’s neck with a contemptuous shake, before tossing the body onto the burning wreck of the first battlesuit.

Its approach shook the ground, each bloodied step bringing it closer to the trembling human. It was so alien. So different. Something out of the darkest horror stories. An agent of entropy. And it wanted him to know it was coming, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was nothing he could say. Words would pour into that void and it would swallow them all and feel nothing.

There was no commonality between him and the thing.

“Why?” he asked, as the giant raised its fist to strike him down. “Why do this? Why?”

The answer was immediate, the reply of one who has been asked uncountable times before, who responds as a matter of blind faith and unthinking obedience. _We were poor,_ Trust thought as death closed in on him, _We were lesser, but we lived, we were free enough, to choose and to think. What did that mean?_

“For the Emperor,” said the thing.

And then there was nothing at all.


End file.
